


The Huntress and the Dandy

by ErinPtah



Category: Hellsing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-11
Updated: 2006-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets for a challenge at the now-defunct Hellsing Drops community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually remember which theme this one was for. Oops?

"Until this point, we tend to assume that Max didn't know what he was getting into."

"Lieutenant?"

"We're led to believe he didn't _know_ Samiel's catch. But . . ."

"Lieutenant . . ."

". . . there's a line in this scene that makes me think--"

 _"Lieutenant!"_

Rip Van Winkle's gaze was yanked from visions of velvet-green forests and shady northern glens to the man in the ice-cream-white suit sitting before her. "What is it? Oh, I didn't explain how Agatha--"

"Lieutenant, _please_." In one of his more flourishing gestures, Tubalcain Alhambra put a finger to the other vampire's lips. "It's Christmas. Let us discuss something more jolly."


	2. Spring Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Theme #66: Rituals. Contains the Major in an apron; not for the weak of stomach.

When spring rolled around at a certain secret base deep in the heart of Brazil, everyone abruptly found Somewhere Else To Be. Zorin, after a few hours' search, found a small patch of her skin that had not yet been covered with ink, and took it eagerly to the farthest tattoo parlor she could find. The Captain made the trek to the foothills of the Andes to do some hunting - or at least that was what everyone assumed, though he never took any guns. Schrödinger headed to a rat-infested sewer with the same goal. And the Doctor hopped a plane to the United States for a science fiction convention. (His bloody lab coats were all left at home, replaced by his cleanest coat, the one stained only by Cheetos.)

The reason for all of this abrupt departure, besides fear at the sight of Major Montana Max in a pink frilly apron, was the terrifying possibility that they might be forced to clean something.

Rip Van Winkle's strategy in this situation, time-tested and brilliant in its simplicity, lay in a small slip of paper which entitled her to a front-row seat at the nearest opera house.

She was rushing back to her room to grab her parasol - it was cheap, yes, but it definitely turned heads - when she heard something from inside Tubalcain Alhambra's room. Rip slowed her dash to a tiptoe; she didn't want to get caught. But then the door opened, and only the room's occupant was behind it.

"Why, m'lady, what are you about so quietly?" inquired the latest addition to the Millennium Nazis' vampire crew.

"Shh!" hissed Rip. "What are you still doing here?" she added in a whisper.

"I was momentarily taken with the idea of procuring a light snack . . ."

He had no idea what was going on, Rip realized. Forget the parasol: she had to get this blithely unaware gentleman out of there. "We need to leave," she murmured urgently. "I'll explain it all once we're safely--"

"Ah, Lieutenants!" exclaimed a horribly familiar voice from behind her. "I am so glad I have found you. We have much work to do."

Rip turned slowly around, trying to conceal her look of horror, as the frilly apron came into view. The poor thing was stretched painfully across far more flesh than the manufacturers had ever intended. But there was no escaping it now. "Yes, Herr Major," she said weakly.

"We will put everything in its place, and those things that have no place we will put away," continued the Major.

"Yes, Herr Major." The Dandy, still looking puzzled, joined in.

"We will dust all the corners, corner all the trash, and trash all the dust!"

"Er . . . yes, Herr Major."

"We will make this place sparkle from top to bottom, so that you can see your face in the walls! Well, not you two, obviously. But you will see MY face in the walls!" The Major, overcome with enthusiasm, gave up on his monolog and thrust a broom and dustpan at Rip, a mop and a bucket at Alhambra. "Start with the northwest corridor. It's smelled funny for months."

As their fearless leader strode off to orchestrate more organization with whichever soldiers had made the mistake of sleeping in, the Huntress looked despairingly at the blue plastic broom in her hand. "Of _course_ it smells bad down there. Doc brought in one of those rainforest flowers that smells like rotting meat."

"Why is that?" ventured the Dandy.

"Some experiment he wanted to do, I think - he gave up on it five minutes later. We'll have to practically fumigate the place."

Alhambra nodded, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps so," he concluded. "But I can think of no one with whom I would rather perform a fumigation."

Maybe he was just being a gentleman, but - especially when she remembered one year's escapade with a certain catboy and a rodent infestation - Rip realized that the feeling was mutual.


	3. Three Valentines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Theme #29: Valentine. (Originally posted February 13.)

It was February in England, and it was raining.

To most people, the last of those would follow naturally from the first two. Rip Van Winkle and Tubalcain Alhambra were not "most people." For one thing, they were vampires; that explained their dark glasses and tightly closed mouths. For another, they had not thought about the weather; that explained their lack of umbrellas.

"I confess," murmured Alhambra, known to most as the Dandy, "I am torn."

"How so?" asked his companion offhandedly, her mind occupied mostly with longing for the umbrella she'd seen in Sumson's Drugstore back before the drizzle had started up.

"One part of me holds the most fervent hope that the venue directly before us is our destination, for I desire to quit the rainy outdoors. The rest, however, is praying that I shall never have cause to enter the place."

Rip followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow at the pink neon tacked all over the club front. LIVE NUDES, claimed one snaky glowing tube. Another traced the outline of a curvaceous female. Part of the tube was apparently burned out, as the pink woman was missing a foot. Fortunately, the club's patrons weren't much concerned with that.

Then she looked back at her companion. "It isn't. Club M is the one next door."

"Oh." The Dandy paused. "I suppose that satisfies all conditions."

They hurried the last fifty feet to the door, and the Huntress' face stretched into a broad, sharklike grin. "Let's do this thing."

 

*

 

Alhambra walked with catlike softness up to the DJ and tipped his hat, then calmly took the man's heavily pierced head off with one swing.

Nobody looked up.

Before Alhambra could lose his composure, Rip - who had been perusing the dance floor - sidled up next to him and put her fist through the machine spewing the music. _That_ got their attention.

"'Ere now! Wot th' bleep's this?" demanded someone across the room. Someone else hushed the speaker. The site of the headless DJ took a few moments to sink in, but the pair responsible could wait. At last all heads were turned their way, and several mouths had dropped open or spread into lopsided grins, revealing set after set of small fangs.

The Dandy took note of the ones that looked scared; dealing with him would be his job, once his speech was over. Rip, meanwhile, would head out to hunt down those who hadn't even shown up.

When there was absolute silence, the Dandy began to speak in that smooth, suave voice of his. "Vampires," his address began.

The silence held.

 

*

 

They weren't told about the war coming, or the Hellsing Organization, or even the Millennium Nazis. No, these silly young vampires were only told to kill. It will make you stronger, the Dandy told them. Besides, it'll be the best high you ever got. They'd been told this before - it was why they'd elected to get bitten, the only catch being that they would return to Club M on this date for instructions.

As they filed out, Alhambra pulled aside the ones who'd started to get cold feet; Rip slipped off. She ran down the mental list of faces and focused on a hefty male with bushy red hair who'd failed to show up. He was far away, farther than one would travel on a regular basis. So he'd run - poor thing, he thought he had some chance of escaping the Huntress -

"Yaah! Got you, you bleepin' bleep!" yelled a rough voice, as someone ran up behind Rip. She let him tackle her out of sheer curiosity, only regretting that she landed in a puddle.

"Don't move," added a second voice - this one slick as Alhambra's, though with an almost American accent. Rip looked up nonchalantly into the barrel of a cheap handgun. Her accosters, she realized, were two of the cheap vampires they'd just been instructing. What were their names again?

"This bleep was bleepin' easy, bro," said the one on top of her. "No bleepin' problem - hey, he's a chick!"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Jan," began the one holding the shotgun.

"Dude, I'm _in_ the bleepin' gutter," Jan cut in.

His brother ignored him. "Humans would have been no contest," he mused, looking down at Rip. "But how much stronger will we become when we destroy this--"

The Huntress had heard quite enough. She broke Jan's grip easily, shoved him into the muddy street, and was on her feet twisting the gun into a pretzel before Jan's brother could twitch.

"What the bleep?!" shrieked Jan from the gutter. "You bleep!--"

That last "bleep" had been a perjorative term for a woman, and suddenly Alhambra was crouching with a foot on Jan's back and a razor-sharp card at his throat. "Please do not insult the lady's honor," she said calmly.

Rip reached out one long arm and caught the other brother as he started to back away. "Where did you think you were going, little one?"

"Luke," snapped the vampire faintly. "My name is Luke."

"Shall we dispose of them, Huntress?" asked Alhambra calmly.

A fanged grin split Rip's face. "I'd rather not. These two are gutsy. Stupid, but gutsy. We could use them."

 

*

 

On the roof of a row of Glasgow flats, the two vampires clinked glasses together and finished off what was left of the runaway redhead. "To the Valentine Brothers," said Rip. "May their mission be a resounding success."

"To the Valentine Brothers," echoed Alhambra. "Which reminds me - tomorrow is Saint Valentine's Day."

"Hey, that's right."

"In observation of this, I have purchased you a gift." Alhambra seemed flustered for a moment - the Dandy, flustered? But no, Rip had imagined it - smoothly reached into an inside coat pocket and brought out a plastic umbrella, wrapped in a pink bow. With a flourish, he handed it to her.

"Whoa, thanks!" exclaimed the Huntress, tearing it open and twirling the umbrella about above them. "This is perfect."

 

*

 

"Did you enjoy the meal?" quipped Rip as they finished.

"It was passable," admitted Tubalcain. "I confess, I am not partial to redheads." _But,_ he added to himself, _I do not mind freckles._


	4. Five Billion Years Later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For theme #86: Dying Sun.

Rip Van Winkle doesn't have a sense of space anymore.

She used to be a physical presence, twirling on her heels while Wagnerian rhythms thundered in the background. She misses having heels. The skinny arms, not so much. The freckles, nah. But she really thinks she'd like to have heels again.

All she has left is a vague sense of crowding, what would be described as shoulder to shoulder if any of the people involved had shoulders.

Rip was over a hundred years old when she was absorbed into Legion. Her body, for all its skinny arms and freckles, had been hers for decades, and she thought she was used to it. Now she can barely remember what she was like. On the other hand, now she truly understands what it means to get "used to" something.

She isn't quite sure how fast time is passing, or if she sleeps. One time she started repeating every song she knew; she got through 8536 repetitions before she messed something up and lost count.

She's also invented songs of her own. She composed a full-length opera maybe a million years ago. Or rather, she composed several operas, but this one, had it been performed, would easily have been the definitive masterpiece of the genre. Not that any of its other masterpieces survive except here, in what's left of her soul.

Rip tried reaching out to the souls around her; she found them all degraded, rotting, insane. And why not? They had been here for centuries when she showed up. She's almost certainly gone a little insane herself by this point. It's hard to tell.

She tries to remember her definitive masterpiece, and gets stuck in the fourth movement. After going over it a few times and being stymied by the same chord, she goes baack to scales. The basic structure gives her something to lean on, to stabalize herself.

 _Do re mi fa sol la ti do..._

 _Do re mi fa sol la ti do..._

The structure is abruptly counterpointed by another rhythm. Rip feels its syncopation with her own.

 _Ace two three four five six seven eight nine ten jack queen king..._

She harmonizes, in C to his E, hearts to his spades: _Ace two three four five six seven eight nine ten jack queen king..._

They continue like that for a few hours. Or maybe it's decades.

Then she starts into the scales again. For some minutes - or it could be a Millennium - she's alone again.

But eventually Tubalcain Alhambra gets the pattern.

 

\---

 

Somewhere in a cave on what had been the ocean floor at the North Pole, back before the oceans and all the other water evaporated, Alucard and his coffin sat glumly. Alucard had been sleeping for a good million years, and was just getting to a really interesting bit of his dream when he was awoken by what felt like an alarm clock ringing deep within his bowels.

So he got blearily up and poked his head outside to check the weather. (This process took about a month. He'd gotten slow in his old age. Fortunately, he was in no hurry.)

The sun was still a huge pulsating orb of unbearable angry red, but he thought it looked a little less angry than last time.


End file.
